


And All that Childermass Knew Might Bring Him Trouble

by ImolaOrange



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Book(s), Post-Series, Prequel to And Some of What He Knew Might Be the Death of Him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:47:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8154572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImolaOrange/pseuds/ImolaOrange
Summary: Prequel to And Some of What He Knew Might Be the Death of Him. When an encounter with a diabolical fiend sends Childermass fleeing for his life across Faerie and the English countryside, he reluctantly sets his course for Starecross Hall. Injured and desperate, Childermass will need all his cunning, along with the help of a questionable acquaintance if he is to survive his flight.





	1. A Dangerous Indulgance

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the story I wasn't going to write - but then had to write. Also, I hate leaving things unfinished. Additionally, I posted _And Some of What He Knew Might Be the Death of Him_ first because I doubted very few would read _And All that Childermass Knew Might Bring Him Trouble_ , because, let's face it, readers like angst and sex! -maybe together, maybe separate but it's what draws a lot of hits. This fic has no sex, but it does have...a nasty fight, a big chase, angst and doubt, a horrid faerie, and Vinculus being, well, Vinculus. 
> 
> So, if you're new to these guys and might be wondering which to read first. _And Some of What He Knew Might Be the Death of Him_ has most of the angst and hurt/comfort and feels, and a tiny bit of sexy. 
> 
> If you're in the mood to read more like a novella, start with this one. Of course, this one isn't done yet...so...I'd probably read this chapter and then skip to the next fic and come back...
> 
> However you decide to read it, I hope you enjoy - and thanks for reading my fics BTW!
> 
> There will be two more chapters to follow. UPDATE 10/4- Now that I'm writing more of the next chapters I think it's going to be more like 4-6 additional chapters.

It was raining, neither hard, nor soft, but somewhere in between; an incessant patter that had not let up one moment since a dark clad rider and his horse set foot in this land ten days past. Above the pair a single raven winged through the downpour its cackles and calls a ceaseless harassment. The horse stopped and the man astride the beast raised his head and looked about with a narrowed gaze. The pair remained this way for some time, the horse expressing its impatience with the pointed gesture of one heavy hoof digging at the mud and stones. The rider paid the shifting beast no mind, his only movement being black-gloved fingers drumming thoughtfully upon his thigh. Both horse and man ignored the raven screeching above.

To the rider’s right were great stretches of fields marked by broken walls of stacked stone and beds where small streams spread like veins across the land. Pale round boulders were scattered upon the turf, strange imitations of sheep, and even though many would say it was quite impossible; furrowed ground behind the stones proved that they were in fact moving about the pasture in an odd parody of their woolly-coated likenesses.

To the rider’s left was the start of a forest, which began as a mass of brambles and desperate scrawny vines skulking about the edge of the roadside. A few paces in and the brambles gave ground to a multitude of ash, oak, and yew. Powerful trees sought by human and faerie for their magical prowess and wisdom, or at least they might be if the denizens of this tract had not been such a quarrelsome band. Constantly bickering amongst themselves, branches rattled like sabers in scabbards. Leaves rustled and shook on even the calmest of days, while beneath the soil roots waged silent pernicious duels. The racket from the bickering had at all times about it the dull roar of ocean surf, yet without any of the soothing qualities that might be found there.

The raven gave a cackle and settled onto a branch overhanging the road. Its weight caused the bough to shake even harder, displacing water droplets that cascaded across one leaf, a few more, a dozen, until a sloppy spattering torrent fell upon the man, pattering upon his battered hat and rolling from the shoulders of his ancient greatcoat.

John Childermass did not mind rain, nor did he mind snow, sleet, wind, or any meteorological event be it grand or small. One might think that a sunny day, rare as they were, would bring a bit of a smile and even a lightness to his mien. It did no such thing, though if pressed he would admit a certain appreciation for the strength and depth of shadow on such days. Childermass was quite unlike more timid folk, who would make great plans only to peek out the window and find a disagreeable cloud or a petulant raindrop smearing the pane and quickly throw up their hands in dismay and retire to the deepest recesses of their domicile. This man had no time for such luxurious indulgence, for Childermass was among many things – from the first of his days to the very one he now found himself occupying – an individual with a great deal to accomplish.

He dismounted and found something of a trail, or if not that than a break in the thick foliage. Brewer followed his master, maneuvering his great bulk between trees, snapping delicate saplings and grinding flimsy shrubbery beneath his hooves. All of which was justified in his equine mind for he had no respect for greenery harboring designs to impede his path. Pressing on, Childermass found the farther he went the slower his pace became. This reduction was not due to the thickness or inconvenience of the foliage in his path but something rare and unwelcome in his world.

Unease.

He knew that being a mortal man – magician or not – he was trespassing in a foreign world. A thousand unseen eyes had marked his passage these last days, yet aside from the scolding raven he was left in peace. This tension, this quiet and near breathless expectation affirmed he was near his goal. When the sky spoke to him, each drop of rain brimmed with worry. It told him that there was still the time to put foot to stirrup, ride away and find a welcoming path back to the mortal lands where he belonged.

Still time to leave well enough alone.

Childermass was not a man to leave well enough alone. Childermass was a man to make circumstance and opportunity bend to his will and mold to his liking. And so he pressed forward, pushing stiff branches from his path and minding his footfalls between high-rising roots and querulous vines glistening with thorns.

Childermass claimed he undertook these perilous and lengthy journeys for one purpose, to find the missing Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Vinculus whether drunk in his cups or debating magical theory insisted the two men to be creations of the Raven King, nothing more than components of the spell meant to return magic to England. It could be the truth, for as the book of the Raven King; Vinculus was closer to this than any other living thing.

John Childermass hoped this was not so, that Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell had come to exist as all mortal creatures did, naturally. The alternative filled him with question and unease. Made him wonder if a great trick had not been played upon him as well. In an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty and blunt speculation Childermass had voiced these thoughts aloud. Such words had troubled Mr. Segundus greatly, his wide blue eyes clouded and his brow wrinkled while he pondered the repercussions of such an admission. While Vinculus had burst forth with a long and nasty cackle, crooked yellow teeth bared amidst the tangle of his ill-kempt beard.

“Oh ho! And so it is that John Childermass, loyal servant of the Raven King, is pulled from the sanctity of his shadows and secrets into the dreary grey of the sun. Spare no words but tell us how it feels knowing that you are nothing more to him than the rest of us!”

Vinculus, who was quite drunk had carried on with unseemly delight. While Mr. Segundus had put forth with little success an attempt to reprimand Vinculus for such cruel words.

“How does it feel, indeed,” murmured Childermass staring up at the sopping, quivering trees.

Childermass had always believed himself to be his own man with his loyalties given of his own free will, but in this past year doubt had found residence in his heart. A spell had been wrought and he had played his part, driven not perhaps by his own mind and ambitions, but perhaps a pawn as well in this great scheme.

That sting had become a long-festering wound at the center of his being.

He admonished himself for an arrogant fool. He was a servant after all, who was he to question the will of his king? Had he not achieved his greatest wish? Magic had returned to the land and it was there for all who had a mind to use it, no longer hoarded in a library on moldering pages, precious and fruitful knowledge meant only for a greedy selfish man. Nor was it found any longer in the voracious madness harbored by Jonathan Strange. It was free to breathe and grow and work its way once more into the land of England and its people. He had played his part and he must content himself with this continuing role, for this small and gentle flame yet needed his care if it was to ignite across the country. And so he knew in his heart if he were wise he would put aside this dangerous indulgence and return to his tasks, for they were great enough without this pride born complication.

Yet he did not, for in that moment he heard most distinctly rushing water sounding over the patter and splash of rain upon foliage. He paused, head bowed, ears perked and straining until the noise came to him quite clear. Childermass surged forward batting aside branches while he moved at a swift jog along the narrow tract. Brewer followed close behind, the beasts’ great hooves crashing and plunging behind his master.

Childermass came upon his goal with surprising suddenness when forest abruptly gave way at the bank of a river, or to be more precise, the missing piece of the river Hurt. Both horse and man skidded to a stop, Childermass with an exclamation of surprise and Brewer with a startled blown _huff_.

The river Hurt was not so much a great wide river, being more in the mind of an ambitious stream that had long overflowed its banks and become rather taken with the outcome. Peering upriver, Childermass noted the water began in the center of a stand of ash, where it seemed to pour forth from the very air. But a step in one direction would bring the crack of leaf and twig underfoot whilst the other chilled feet and wet breeches. Looking downstream Childermass saw a familiar bridge of classical structure formed from the very same rock as Hurtfew. Perhaps twenty paces beyond the bridge, the river came to an abrupt end at the base of a knoll occupied by several discontented oak trees.

Looking across the river from his vantage point Childermass could see nothing but the continuation of forest. There was no sign of the gleaming grey walls of Hurtfew.

He left Brewer in a small clearing barely the size of a roomy box stall and made his way – with some difficulty and perhaps a curse or two – to the bridge. Beneath his feet forest leaf and loam gave way to old cobbles. The heels of his boots made a gentle and hollow scrape and scuff while he walked towards his goal. Pausing for a moment he reached down and collected a piece of wood near long as his forearm and as thick. From his pocket he pulled forth an old scrap of linen, which he tied firmly about the center of the branch.

Then with some wariness and caution he stepped onto the bridge. Should the structure turn out to be an illusion he was not so much concerned about an unplanned dunking in the river, for the Hurt was not so deep and he could swim if need be. It was the notion of finding himself soaked through with little prospect for any fire large and warm enough to be of use.

To his pleasure, the bridge was as solid beneath his feet as any ground he’d previously traversed and so he went forward with confidence. Reaching the center, Childermass paused and dropped the piece of wood into the river Hurt. He watched it bob and twirl through the current flowing to the end of the river tract where it disappeared into nothingness. Turning his attention upstream he waited while counting measured time in his head. The branch with the linen never reappeared. Childermass was not surprised by this result and marked the outcome with little more than the quick raise of a brow.

Crossing the bridge he set foot upon cobbled ground at the other side. Moving a few paces forward he let loose with a shout of surprise at the unexpected appearance of solid stone in front of his very nose!

Hurtfew Abbey, not as it had been, perched on the low rise overlooking the desolate view of the Yorkshire countryside, but now nestled deep in this tract of forest in Faerie. Trees grew next to the very walls, their branches distorted and bent, pushing and fretting at the obstacle crowding their domain. Upon regaining his composure, Childermass tapped a knuckle against the structure finding it solid as anything and no conjured illusion. Then pulling off his gloves he pressed his hands to the stone feeling it wet and pitted and real beneath his fingertips.

Childermass had no moment to celebrate the attainment of this long sought goal for of a sudden the entire world went sideways; he staggered and would have fallen if not for the wall so near. Head reeling, he gulped in great breaths of air while he felt his legs giving way. It was little more than Yorkshire stubbornness that kept him upright while bout after bout came at him relentless as the tide.

It was well known amongst those who knew him that Childermass was sensitive to the presence of magic. In the past, strong magic had warped his vision and set his head to spinning so that he would be unable to keep his feet. More than once he did find himself upon the floor looking up in surprise and confusion while the staff exclaimed with worry. Neither this weakness, nor the fuss caused by these sudden circumstances was a welcome occurrence for a man of his temperament. To be sure, it was useful being able to sense the presence of magic, though Childermass wished it did not manifest itself in such a cursed incapacitating manner. He had only met one other who possessed this same gift, or inconvenience as it were, the would-be magic teacher and proprietor of Starecross Hall, Mr. Segundus.

Though Childermass’ frequent journeys to Faerie this past year contrived to build in him a sort of immunity to the power of the place, his first few forays had been necessarily quick, for they left him disorientated and reeling from the power in each stone, raindrop, and blade of grass. Now it existed as a manageable hum, a current flowing about his body that he likened to a country brook where before it had a near debilitating deluge. Yet this sudden onslaught was unlike any power he had felt before, and through his gasping misery he recognized it for what it was, the pure magic of the Raven King.

It took time, far too much time for him to regain his breath and balance. He stood, shaking and sweating and spitting bile until he felt steady enough to try the familiar stairs leading to a fine weathered pair of oaken doors. He did not need to try the doors to know they were impassible, being covered in a web of saplings, ivy and briarthorn as thick as his wrist in some places. In the middle of it all was the black iron knocker and without hesitation he seized the ring and gave several loud knocks against the stout panel. There was no answer, and in truth he had not for one moment believed it would be so simple, not when Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell were involved. Though a small smile did twist his features when he wondered just what his reaction might have been should he have found himself face to face with his own likeness!

These sealed doors and masses of foliage were not something to immediately turn Childermass away. Though the greenery was more than a match for his knife, he might return with an ax to do for the task. Yet he discarded this thought with thorough swiftness. This place was built with magic and perhaps an iron ax might overcome enchantments for a moment, but there was no telling the consequences to be paid when the blade dulled. It might be that the vegetation would turn against him; it was certainly not an improbability. His eyes traveled to the gleaming thorns sprouting from the tangle, each one as long as the blade of his knife, the wicked points just as sharp. At the moment there seemed to be an unaccountable number perilously close to his breast. He took a careful step back and reflected upon his circumstance.

Perhaps, magic was the answer. Childermass pressed his hand to the place where ancient stonework melded with the oak of the door and focused the wild old magic of this place to his will. The scents of forest loam and tobacco overwhelmed the smell of damp for but a moment before he felt it all slip away, drowned by the rain and noise of the forest. In a sudden and uncharacteristic display of anger he seized the black iron knocker and beat it against the door with such fury that even the screaming of the crow and the tidal roar of the trees were drowned from his ears.

It was all for naught, just as he knew it would be. This loss of temper was a rare and pointless indulgence achieving little more than working him into an uncomfortable sweat that had his heart racing and his breath rasping in his throat. The whole thing brought to mind one of Mr. Norrell’s frequent fits which caused Childermass to let loose with a humorless and desperate bark of a laugh.

He feared that should he leave and return at another time Hurtfew might well be gone. Pulled from the forest to manifest at some other appointed location days or perhaps weeks of travel from where it was now. Childermass was unsure if he could locate the structure again. It had taken time to sort through the magic of Faerie and trace that one thin and fragile thread.

A wisp of wood smoke filled his nostrils. A weak presence near lost in the rain. Childermass looked up, blinking and squinting at the sky; in small moments he saw sinuous coils of grey, fleeting things borne down by the rain. The flash of glass caught his attention and a thought did come to mind. If not the door, than perhaps the windows, unconventional to be sure and hardly the most appropriate way to make one’s presence known.

Certainly not the actions of a gentleman.

John Childermass set to climbing. It was no great distance to the window ledge, just a bit more than he was tall. He found the frightful thorns to be excellent hand and footholds. Still, he took the task with a measure of caution after his boot slipped on rain-slick foliage and he near lost his balance. For one precarious moment he feared he would fall into the waiting patch of briarthorn below and be injured most fearsomely. It was luck, or cat quick reflexes that saved him such a fate. As it was, he suffered a gash upon his forearm when a thorn’s point drove through his coat and into his flesh as easy as it pleased. So close to his goal, he did not stop to acknowledge the injury but expressed his discomfort with a curse through clenched teeth before climbing that little bit higher.

Peering through the thick glass of the pane, Childermass saw no flicker of movement or glow of flame. What he could make out from weak light and shadow was as familiar to him as his own face in a mirror. Chairs and side tables and rugs, all left precisely as he remembered them. He pressed his ear to the chill glass and listened but heard not a word echoing from within. Instead, the cackle and caw of the raven became a trumpet and the far off jingle of Brewer’s harness the plucked strings of a discordant harp battering aside his concentration. The wound in his forearm began to ache abominably and he could feel blood seeping from the gash to soak his sleeve and jacket. All about, the tide of trees roared their displeasure at his trespass and the river water set a fearsome drumbeat upon its stone bed. Servant of John Uskglass or not, his meddling was not welcome.

Childermass did not yield, not with his goal solid beneath his hand. He would lose this battle, he knew, but he was determined to hold out as long as he could. He tried his magic once again, not a raging blast full of power but a small and unassuming slip of a spell. A stealthy messenger meant to slide through drafty cracks and skitter across floors to set in the mind of its recipient the gentlest of notions.

Despite the magic of John Uskglass arrayed against him, Childermass had the odd notion of success. The scent of his magic lingered in the air and the feel of it remained heavy in his bones. Childermass waited, unsure of what was to come. When in the window but a breath later there came the sudden appearance of a small bespectacled figure!

Gilbert Norrell peered through the glass with a certain vexation to his mien. His horsehair wig a bit frayed and askew, a familiar downward pull at the corners of his mouth. He stood with a large tome clutched to his chest, eyes staring not at the man on the other side of the window but straight through him. Recovered from his start, Childermass dared to free one hand. He pounded upon the pane and shouted a great bellow all to no effect. There was no telling what Mr. Norrell saw, but he most certainly did not see John Childermass.

A moment later Mr. Norrell stepped from the window. Childermass continued to call after the retreating form, and for a moment at least, his voice rose above the rain and the river and the trees. The small figure paused in its retreat, head turning ever so slightly before Mr. Norrell stepped from the room and out of Childermass’ sight.

For some time after Childermass remained, awaiting the return of Mr. Norrell, or a glimpse of Jonathan Strange. He tried his spell again but found it snuffed to nothingness before its barest glimmer. There was something else, the air was heavy, the rain harder. Magic was here and he was certain it was not the magic of his King, displeased or otherwise. Even the raven had gone silent. Nausea overtook him and the world suddenly had the blurry appearance of being viewed through a thin sheet of falling water. Magic, not the pure power erupting from the Raven King’s spells, but something brimming with malice and arrogance.

Magic that did not create but destroy.

Despite his surety of self and confidence of manner, Childermass understood when the retreat of an overstayed welcome was a wise course of action. He made his way down the vines with swift action devoid of mishap. He walked across the bridge, shoulders hunched against the rain. He did not count this a loss, for in truth he had no notion of his actions once he had located the men. Vinculus, who knew what Childermass was about with these frequent and lengthy disappearances had laughed until he had fallen from his chair.

“What can you do John Childermass?” Lying in a heap upon the floor the drunkard had pointed a crooked digit Childermass’ way. “Like any good servant, you won’t disobey your king! Your king has worked his spell and set the fate of Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell. You know what happens to servants who poke their noses where they don’t belong.”

He did, but it had never in his days concerned him one whit.

Upon reaching the other side Childermass turned and looked back, and of all things, smiled. Perhaps it was the pleasure of his victory that caused this action. For over a year he had been hunting for the pair and to discover them ensconced in Hurtfew Abby in the middle of this quarrelsome tract of forest deep within Faerie!

Gilbert Norrell would never again be his master, but Childermass still felt something for the man – exactly what, he could not name – even after Mr. Norrell chose the counsel of the loathsome Henry Lascelles. And though there was no sign of Jonathan Strange, Childermass knew he must be here as well, for where there was one there would be the other. Did Jonathan Strange remember the wife he left behind? Childermass thought it would be a great kindness if Mr. Strange retained no recollection of the life now lost. He did not think he would tell Arabella Strange of his discovery. He would not see her suffer this false hope; it was a cruelty he did not possess.

So occupied with this unsettling reflection was he that he did not hear nor notice the thin and gray-coated figure when it stepped from the shadow of a crooked yew.

A voice, clear and sharp as glass struck Childermass’ back.

“You are a long way from the shelter of your hearth, Johanitte.”


	2. An Impasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The trees tell me you trespass where you are not wanted. The sky tells me it has tried time and again to warn you away. And still, here you are. In your arrogance you have never thought to leave well enough alone, John Childermass.” 
> 
> Childermass did not dispute the truth of the words.

Eyes the color of glass met the gaze of the dark mortal with the ragged hair.

Childermass could not hide his surprise at seeing the tall pale figure at the base of the bridge when but a moment before the space had been unoccupied.

“You startled me, sir! I have traveled this land for several days and have seen no other.” He did not add that this was a pleasant change from his solitude, for it was not. Far from it! For Childermass understood himself to be in the gravest of dangers, and so began to sift and tally a very short list of options.

Upon hearing Childermass’ words, the creature offered no explanation of its appearance nor an apology for the start it caused, but instead posed a question. “What is your given Christian name Sir So-far-from-home?”

“John Childermass,” replied Childermass.

The faerie studied Childermass, staring in a bold and rude fashion. Over the drip of rain and the rush of the river there was the faint sound of glass cracking. Childermass felt a pressure in the air, a gentle nudge that pushed forward and fell back. Forward and back, it reminded him of the tide. After a time the sensation faded and the creature blew forth an angry _hiss_ of breath.

“John Childermass, indeed! I will tell you that I have little patience for liars.”

Childermass gave a slight nod of his head and raise of a shoulder.

“I am sorry, sir, but that is a given Christian name that is mine to claim.” He met the faerie’s stare with his own. “And would you share a name with me?”

The creature’s eyes narrowed. “I think you deserve little in the way of that courtesy. I will not have my name, a name esteemed throughout the realms of Desolation and beyond, spoken by a creature so low as yourself. I care not if you take issue with my perceived rudeness for this is the truth of it all. I tolerate your presence as nothing more than an oddity. You are as to me the worm in an apple, a disgusting surprise of a curiosity.”

At this Childermass laughed. “Your words remind me of a gentleman I once knew.”

The faerie raised a brow. “A fine fellow, I am sure!”

Childermass shrugged an answer through the rain. “He thought himself so.”

The faerie scowled. Why, the insolence of this ragged mortal was unconscionable! Skulking about where he had no business. Daring to answer a most honest and polite inquiry with a half-truth. And his eyes, though dark and common as dirt, they saw too much. Secrets and shames that should stay hidden. Clever or not, the mortal was far from friend and hearth. His blood and strength might be taken and used to suitable purpose.

The creature knew this one to be John Uskglass’ man, yet it felt no presence of the Raven King, and emboldened by this absence set its sights to its dastardly goal. A chill smile full of pointed teeth and malevolent intent flicked through the rain. The faerie licked thin lips and stared at Childermass’ bloodied sleeve.

“Your curiosity has made you careless Johanite, two things which will not do you well in these lands.”

Childermass said not a word, only took the measure of the being before him, ignoring the fine grey coat made of lightest wool and the pale hair every bit as ragged as his own. Instead he watched the creature’s movements, at times precise and fluid while at others stiff and distracted. As if to accentuate this observation the faerie cocked its head like an inquisitive crow and spoke.

“Your hat, what an interesting accoutrement, why, I do believe it may be as old as I.” The faerie paused a moment to laugh at its own wit. “May I have it? Your hat?”

Childermass quirked a brow. “Alas, sir, I cannot imagine why you should want the thing. It is not fit for a gentleman such as yourself.”

The faerie frowned and stared at Childermass. “I find the irony of its possession amusing.”

“Well then, we have reached an impasse,” remarked Childermass. “I will keep my hat and be on my way, for it seems my presence vexes you. I am sorry for that, sir.”

There was nothing in Childermass’ manner that suggested he was the least bit sorry, though his words held something of a tone of sincerity.

The faerie pulled forth a pipe from within an inner pocket of its fine coat. Long skilled fingers flicked and tamped and adjusted the tobacco just so, a moment later the sweet smell of smoke scented the rain. Childermass thought this a nice trick for he had seen neither flint nor matchstick to ignite the bowl.

“And so you think you will, but I say you shall not. Not if you wish to keep your heart, Johanite. That hat is the toll I require should you wish to pass out of these lands unharmed.” The creature waved the pipe in a friendly manner that by no means shown in its eyes.

“The trees tell me you trespass where you are not wanted. The sky tells me it has tried time and again to warn you away. And still, here you are. In your arrogance you have never thought to leave well enough alone, John Childermass.”

Childermass did not dispute the truth of the words.

“The thorns found your blood quite pleasing, and I have a mind to give them more.”

The faerie took the pipe from its mouth, tapped a long nail against the bowl before turning it upside down to scatter the ashes upon the cobbles. Then, satisfied, it tucked the item into the pocket from whence it came. When the hand next emerged from the folds of the garment it held a knife, thin and fine and glittering.

“You play your games, refuse and insult me. Trespass where you have no right. For that I will have your heart, filth. Carve it from your chest as you take your final breath. Then body and soul will belong to me. Dust will fill your eyes and despair the empty hole where your heart once beat. I will see you bend beneath my wrath and your will broken in each long day. Your body set upon with new tortures each night. Your screams and moans will be the music of our grandest dances!”

While many children reared under far more advantageous circumstances were all tucked snug in their beds, dreaming of sweetmeats and toys. John Childermass, being little more than a stripling, by necessity prowled a great many of the filthiest and most disreputable streets to ever arrive in Yorkshire's long existence. He was witness to a great many things it is safe to say no child should view. Suffered some, and was the cause of this suffering on a few occasions. His education was not unlike that of a wild thing, instant, brutal, and leaving scant room for misjudgment or failure.

After watching a man bleed his life away atop a pile of horse manure and piss wet cobbles, young Childermass learned a valuable lesson regarding the art of battle. When faced with an opponent of superior strength and skill, retreat was preferable. If such a course were impossible, surprise might go a long way in balancing the odds as it were. The man face down in the hardened droppings had certainly not seen it coming, nor did the faerie waxing eloquent in its tantrum.

The forest echoed with a dreadful howl.

“You horrid filth! What have you done to my beautiful face?”

Thunder echoed in the north while the trees about shook and groaned as if they might snap to a million pieces. The river Hurt went silent.

John Childermass swore, for the fiend’s face was most certainly not his target! He had been aiming for a region a few inches lower, where his blade had meant to find a pale exposed throat. Instead Childermass saw that he had cut the creature’s face from pointed chin to the bottom of its ear. 

It was a curious thing when Childermass felt the slightest prick of a needle against his side and the unaccountable catch of his breath, looking down he saw a fine and glittering blade buried between his ribs.


	3. The Proud Servant of John Uskglass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childermass looked down at his knife lying upon the ground. It seemed a terrible distance away and he was not certain that should he bend to reach it he would rise again. As it was, his strength gave out and he fell to one knee. His battered hat tumbled to the ground and a fresh wash of heat spread across his side.
> 
> “Oh ho! The proud servant of John Uskglass falls at last.”

When the blade left his side it took his breath and very near all his strength. Trails of heat tickled down his ribs and when he pressed a hand to the wound he felt warmth seeping into the leather of his glove. His knife fell from his fingers to clatter upon the cobbles. Darkness closed at the edge of his vision, black wings of ravens seeking to smother light and life. The pounding of his heart drowned the screaming of the faerie and the rush of the water, and he thought.

_I am dying._

There was no despair or regret, only fury at his foolishness and failure. He had been bested, and now it was that his greatest task would go unfulfilled, all because of his pride.

So be it! If this was to be the end, it would not come in a pitiful heap upon his knees before this ridiculous being. He focused what remained of his strength and pulled in one great ragged breath, and then another. The black wings scattered and light returned to his gaze.

The faerie’s cries had faded to a whimper and Childermass heard the hiss of its voice over the pounding of his blood.

“Curse you filth! I thought to see your intestines steaming upon the stones.”

“And I meant to open your throat ear to ear.” Childermass replied in a coughed rasp full of all the truth he could wield.

The creature bared its teeth and hissed, remaining at a wary distance; blood ran down its neck to stain the beautiful wool of the coat and the fine linen shirt beneath. “You are unaccountable quick for a mortal yet that hole in your side shall slow you down plenty, and you will not be so lucky a second time. I _will_ have your heart.”

Raising its knife, one long slender finger topped with a gleaming talon of a nail reached forth to scrape the film of blood from the edge of the blade. The delicate tip of a tongue shot forth quick as a serpent to taste the crimson smear.

Childermass looked down at his knife lying upon the ground. It seemed a terrible distance away and he was not certain that should he bend to reach it he would rise again. As it was, his strength gave out and he lurched forward falling to one knee. His battered hat tumbled to the ground. A fresh wash of heat spread across his side.

“Oh ho! The proud servant of John Uskglass falls at last.”

Childermass heard the faerie move forward and he did not need to lift his gaze to know the knife was coming for his heart. Ignoring the blade so near his fingers he fumbled in a pocket until his hand closed upon a piece of quartz. His voice came forth in a low murmur and the scent of pipe tobacco and forest loam filled the air. The shadow of the faerie blocked the grey light of the day.

Childermass finished the spell and crushed the quartz to dust in his gloved hand. Tearing his fist from his pocket he flung the powder at the advancing fiend. There was the sound of a thousand small bells ringing at once and a flash of light that arced at the edge of Childermass’ vision. The faerie screamed and fell back, raising its arm to shield its eyes. Childermass grabbed for his knife and tried to rise.

The faerie dropped its arm. Before its face small flashes sparked and danced in the air. “Useless tricks! Do you think it matters that I cannot see or hear you filth? I can smell your blood and that is all I need!”

Rushing forward with frightful speed the creature was on him before he could gain his feet. Childermass scrabbled backward to avoid a wild swipe of the knife. Felt a tug and catch upon his coat followed by a sting across his chest.

His enemy’s howl of delight was cut short when Childermass grabbed the creature by its fine woolen lapels and heaved it off balance. There was the sound of rending fabric and a surprised shout when the fiend fell to earth. Childermass wasted no time but brought his own blade to bear, plunging it into the faerie’s leg, twisting the knife deeper with every bit of his strength.

The faerie screamed and writhed upon the ground, its weapon skittering across the stones, fingers scrabbling at the knife buried in its thigh. “My poor leg! Why have you done such a thing, you horrid, horrid man? You have ruined me you lowborn piece of gutter filth!”

The childish sobs and accusations might have been comical if Childermass did not know that it was neither pain nor loss of blood, but surprise that held the creature in thrall. The spell would weaken in moments and the shock of this new injury would fade, and when it did the creature would come for him, and with his wounds and his weakness John Childermass knew he could do nothing. The fiend would take his heart and make good on every promise that had passed its lips, and he was cold with the thought of it.

He came to his feet, swaying perilously when he felt a frightful rush of blood dampen his shirt and vest. With breath he could not spare he called for Brewer, hoping his desperate rasp would be enough. It was with greatest relief that he heard the beast come crashing through the brush to stand before him, tossing and shaking his head at the scent of blood and the feel of danger. Grasping a handful of mane, Childermass used what strength remained to pull himself into the saddle.

“And I say you shall not!”

Barely settled, Childermass turned to see the faerie on its feet! It darted forward, mouth wide and teeth bared through its bloody mask. A last desperate attack. The blade swung in a wide arc catching Childermass across the thigh but a moment before Brewer lurched out of reach. The horse reared, his heavy hooves buffeting the air before they plunged to earth churning the mud and turf in great clots. With a viciousness born of desperation Childermass pulling Brewer’s head about and put heels to the muscular flanks.

Brewer needed no further encouragement from his master, but surged ahead knocking the faerie from their path. Charging through the bushes the horse skidded on its haunches down the muddy bank. Soil and rock scattering and tumbling beneath his hooves while his master shouted and cursed, urging him to greater haste.

They plunged into the Hurt, making for the end of the river and the oak knoll downstream. The beast’s strides churning the water to a froth while he strained to reach the deeper water in the middle of the river. Childermass kept his gaze ahead searching for some anomaly in the view that might give him a clue as to this gateway. If he was wrong in this gamble he would likely kill his horse and by turn doom himself. They were nearly at the end of the river tract and coming up fast upon the knoll. Childermass felt Brewer gather himself for the leap from the river and shouted his encouragement when the powerful hindquarters launched them from the water.

They splashed down into the middle of the river Hurt beneath a rainy English sky at dusk. Brewer reared at the sudden change of his world, almost losing his feet in the slick mud and loose stones of the river bottom.

“Easy now, easy, we haven’t time for this.” Childermass kept his seat and calmed the shaking beast. Glad to be in the middle of the river despite the circumstance for it kept the horse from bolting in sheer terror. Childermass recognized the past few moments were a lot to ask of a beast, even one as stalwart as Brewer. He gave the horse a moment to adjust to the abrupt change of view and his self a chance to fight through the dizziness that had him reeling in the saddle. When they were both as right as they could be under the circumstances, Brewer clambered out of the river blowing great _huffs_ of breath more from fear than exertion. While the horse sidled and danced beneath him, Childermass took a moment to access what few options he had.

He reached inside his coat and pressed his hand to his side. For all the misfortune of being stabbed, he realized that some luck was with him. The faerie’s strike had somehow missed his lung! To be sure, the wound hurt abominably. A wedge of burning iron driven between his ribs, grating and belaboring each breath.

As it was he spared no time to tend the injury but pulled his coat tight. The clouds were so heavy and thick it seemed they would fall from the sky and smother the land. There was the low growl of thunder in the north and bright stripes of lightening cleaved the sky above the far forests. None of which boded well for John Childermass.

There were places he might go where he would be welcomed and cared for and the questions left unasked. He had few qualms about placing the denizens of such places in harm’s way, for they ascribed to a certain way of life and moral code that kept them dancing at the edge of the pit. Moreover, they were not his friends; it was his coin, the secrets he kept, and their recognition of one as ruthless and shrewd as they that gained him their collaboration. Childermass understood the nature of these men and the greed that weakened their minds and crushed their will. When the fiend came, he knew they would have neither the wit nor courage to stand against its grand promises. Caught up in the glory of its lies they would deliver him to his enemy with smiles and waiting purses.

Childermass knew if he was to have any chance of surviving, what he needed was something old and powerful to shelter him from the wrath of the crazed faerie. Something strong enough to gain him the time needed to see a plan to fruition. Starecross Hall was such a place. If anything could withstand the force of a faerie in full tantrum Childermass believed it to be this rambling ancient structure built by the Raven King himself.

The people beneath its roof were as important as the ancient stone about them. His actions would bring the gravest of dangers to their very threshold and if his gambit failed they would share his fate. He felt sick with the thought of it, naming himself the lowest of cowards for what he was about to bring down upon their heads. May they forgive him this weakness; he could not do this alone.

In his arrogance and distraction he had not accounted for this outcome. With all his experience and cunning, the skill and strength of his opponent was not something he could match and he felt the heavy weight of regret within his breast. Still, all was not lost. Childermass’ hand rested for a moment upon the pocket that held a fine piece of wool wet with his enemy’s blood. No matter the relief this object might provide, a great burden would be placed upon the narrow shoulders of the proprietor of Starecross Hall, John Segundus. And though it was kept well hidden, Childermass knew the other man possessed the strength and conviction to see this forming plan to success.

“And for that, I am sorry, sir.”

The wind rose of a sudden, whipping wet hair from his face and chilling the sweat upon his brow. The rain fell harder. Childermass looked north and he did not like what he saw. An eerie light glowed above the trees, coloring the weak sunset a sickly shade of purple. There was no more time to waste in rest. He must trust that the speed and courage of the horse beneath him would hold. That what magic he could muster at this time would be enough to see him to his goal. With that, he sent Brewer galloping south, the wind and rain howling at their heels. 

 

Tonight the blue writing felt as if it swirled and swept across the topography of his body like the wind and rain that had come of a sudden from the north. Everything about this storm, whether delivered in the whispers of the rain or the battering shouts of the wind spoke of something unnatural. No, Vinculus corrected himself, not unnatural but distressingly, dangerously, far _too_ natural.

It set his skin to crawling in a way that could not be scratched, well, it could, but that would raise some unaccountable questions and likely no small feelings of surprise and disgust amongst the inn’s current patrons. A draft from a window not quite secured against the tempest wound a swift course past his cheek. He tipped his head into the current and drew in a slow deep breath, flaring his nostrils and pursing his lips through the tangle of beard. It did not take long to sort it through for Vinculus had a nose for many things.

Trapped within his beard came the not unpleasant smell of ale and its welcome sweet undertones of apple and pear. He paused and took a moment to finish the last few swallows from his mug. His belly rumbled at the scent of meat stew, surprisingly and pleasantly filled more with recognizable fare than the gristle and sinew of beasts known to frequent back-alleys and disreputable hedges. He ran his finger about the inside of the bowl gathering the last of the bits before returning his attention to unraveling this airborne puzzle. In the end he pulled it free, tugging it from the twist of wet oak, sour sweat – probably his own – soggy wool, smoke, and a sudden cloud of turnip scented gas bestowed by a farmer from a nearby bench. Vinculus reckoned that on this night there were far worse things than turnips, though the farmer’s companion might beg to differ.

There was magic at the heart of this unrest and it was headed this way with a mind for vengeance. Vinculus could not help but grin while he watched the rain spatter the panes and listened to the gusts set the old timbers to groaning. There was no sense in putting worry or energy to something that was as inevitable as the tide. He shifted into a corner, closed his eyes and folded his hands across his mounded belly, awaiting the dark and ragged harbinger of what he was certain would be a long and dangerous night.


	4. The sky told him to run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a plan is voiced, though Vinculus has his objections, and the two men set forth into the night.
> 
> _“So, it is that on this night I’m worth a little more than the writing on my skin? Am I to be your savior and salvation, John Childermass?”_
> 
> _“So it would seem,” came Childermass’ rather gentle reply._

Vinculus’ nose twitched at the scent of tobacco and forest. He pulled one eye open to watch the dark and ragged figure move between scattered drinkers and stout oaken tables. It was true that among the other persons assembled only the most astute might notice the slight hesitation in each purposeful stride. However, it is worth mentioning that no such creature could be found upon the premises this evening, except perhaps an ill-tempered tabby perched in the rafters. And so there was only Vinculus to mark the way the man held an arm pressed tight against his side while steadying the saddlebags thrown over his shoulder. Guess that the damp upon his face was more than a bout with the elements. That the dark eyes often heavy-lidded in thought, or plot – when it came to this individual Vinculus reckoned them one in the same – spoke of no scheme this night, only exhaustion and pain.

All of this might have been enough to set Vinculus’ heart to racing. Have him rising from the table and moving forth to voice a soft inquiry, maybe even offer aid, and certainly the suggestion of a bed and rest. Then later, having discovered the extent of the man’s injuries; set Vinculus to wandering the muddied streets yelling for the aid of whatever physician or healer could be found in a town of this size on a night such as this. Yet it was not one of these things that caused the beef stew in his bowels to shift and stir as if the beasts were fighting their way back to life. The very thing that had his eyes wide, and the foulest of his curses staining the air was that John Childermass had lost his hat.

Childermass stopped before the table, and making no comment upon the surprise of his condition only said. “Gather your belongings and meet me at the stable forthwith.”

It is worth mentioning that Vinculus did as bidden.

With a long and thoughtful glance at John Childermass’ retreating back, Vinculus finished his cup of ale in three deep drafts before taking his leave of the table and moving with an easy amble that disguised the urgency of the situation at hand.

It was in his head to defy this command and finish another bowl of stew despite the stern warning from his stomach. Perhaps to request a cup of warm wine and what passed for a plate of sweetmeats at this smallish and mediocre establishment. It was in his mind to make John Childermass wait, languishing in the stable in discomfort and growing temper. It was in his mind to steal a kiss and a little bit more from sweet Colleen who waited in a dark recess at the top of the stairs. It was in his mind to otherwise vex and inconvenience John Childermass in ways both small and large.

Yet not a one of these thoughts came to pass, for though he would never admit to such a thing, Vinculus was far more frightened than he could remember and that did include – and this he knew quite clearly – his brush with the noose and the crazed and petulant thistle-down haired faerie. 

 

The stable was warm, near dark, and smelled curiously not of horse but magic. Brewer nickered a greeting to Vinculus’ familiar whistle. In a corner Vinculus saw the dark form of Childermass where he leaned over a bale of hay, hands shuffling his beloved Cards of Marseilles. Upon hearing Vinculus approach, he gathered them in one swift movement and tucked them in a hidden pocket within his greatcoat.

When Childermass turned to face Vinculus, his actions were deliberate and tellingly slow when one considered the usual swiftness and economy of John Childermass’ purposeful stride. Vinculus took the lantern from the peg and raised it high. What he saw was not reassuring.

The greatcoat had fallen open and the first thing Vinculus saw was the front of a shirt sodden with rain and blood. Childermass eyes were a bit too wide and shewn too bright. The hand that reached up to push damp strands of hair from his face was smudged and caked with blood and dirt.

“By his enchanted prick, you look the worse for it!” Vinculus could not help the grin that split his face. He let out a cackle and slapped his thigh before dancing around the silent figure.

“Had a run in with someone, or some thing that didn’t think much of your imperious ways John Childermass?”

Childermass said nothing, only his eyes moved, following the other man while he capered about. Then he gave a careful sort of shrug.

“Aye, you might say something like that.”

A spasm crossed Childermass’ face and he took a step back, pressing his hand to his side. A groan hissed through his teeth before he sat down hard on the bales of hay. His head hanging low. When he had caught his breath, he offered more of an explanation than Vinculus expected.

“I refused a denizen of Faerie a demand. The creature, as you can guess, thinks highly of itself and took exception to my opposition. In return it promised dire repercussions for my…rudeness and other such grievances visited upon its person.”

A smile crinkled the edges of Vinculus’ eyes. “Well, that is a fine and frightful thing, John Childermass.”

The wind battered the doors of the stable, while above loose shingles struck against one another with sharp clacks. The sound reminded Vinculus of dry old bones snapping underfoot. Vinculus knew that John Childermass did not turn from the weather and so he said.

“You mean to go out into that don’t you?”

A long pause before an answer, “aye.”

Vinculus pulled his wineskin from beneath his coat, uncorked it and took several very long drinks. He did not offer any to the man across from him, only took his measure for a moment or two. While he watched, Vinculus listened to the tempest growing in strength and volume outside, thinking it was the utmost of follies to even consider a journey. Tilting his head and narrowing his eyes the street magician posed a most reasonable question.

“And what tempting haven, do tell, will offer greater comfort and safety than these walls?”

Childermass said only two words and nothing more. “Starecross Hall.”

The silence within the stable was broken only by the grind of Brewer’s teeth through a mouthful of hay. At length it was Vinculus who broke the silence, it always was.

“Well now, Starecross Hall…built by the Raven King...” A great pause before Vinculus continued on with a sudden exclamation. “You mean to use it to keep the creature at bay!” The outburst was followed by a more speculative set of his face. “Perhaps such a plan will work, for a time, depending upon the power and motivation of the creature.” Considering the nature of John Childermass, Vinculus guessed that the faerie was quite set upon fulfilling its task.

Vinculus continued. “Let us say, despite your condition and the forces arrayed against you, success is achieved and you arrive at the threshold of Starecross Hall. How then will you keep the creature from its goal? You will hardly be fit for another battle, you will be abed and useless.”

Here Childermass could not help the humor that rumbled in his throat when he recalled Mr. Norrell’s near same criticism after Lady Pole had put her bullet into his shoulder.

“I shall not. That will fall to you. As you point out, I shall be occupied with other matters.”

Vinculus could not hold the gaze of the man now regarding him with such scrutiny that he felt like some poor onion upon the cutting board, peeled layer after layer until he was quite undone. Damn the man! Vinculus tugged at his beard, pretending that some object upon the far wall was quite suddenly the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

“I know,” continued Childermass, “that despite your preoccupation with certain magical frivolities.” Here he stared quite pointedly at the wineskin in Vinculus’ hands. The wineskin that did keep the beverage at a most enjoyable temperature; just enough to keep one’s insides jolly, while not scald a tongue.

“That you have a talent. A rare gift for spells of warding. That skill will allow the time needed to see events through to what I hope will be a success, of sorts.”

Vinculus did not seem at all pleased with this revelation, nor was he pleased with that final addition of words, indeed he looked rather put upon with his mouth turning downward and his lips folding into a pout.

“‘Of sorts?’ It is one thing to ward a small room from unwanted visitors, or a hedgerow from rain, or beast, or brute. I think that I would not need to tell _you_ , John Childermass that Starecross Hall is another creature all together.”

Despite his pain and worry, Childermass managed a cryptic sort of smile. “I think you will find it easier than you believe.”

Vinculus said nothing, for he found it all together irritating – though not surprising – that John Childermass would know this secret and counter with one of his own.

“So, it is that on this night I’m worth a little more than the writing on my skin? Am I to be your savior and salvation, John Childermass?”

“So it would seem,” came Childermass’ rather gentle reply.

Neither man moved or spoke for quite some time. Childermass remained leaning against the bales of hay, his head drooping to his chest. Hand pressed against his side. There came again the scent of Childermass’ magic and Vinculus could not help but wonder what spell the man might be casting and what strength he could have left to do such a thing.

“You are a fool, John Childermass.”

With that declaration hanging in the air as thick as the scent of tobacco and forest loam, Vinculus went to Brewer and began to check each shoe and hoof. Moving next to the tack, tightening a buckle or cinch here and there. Finally, he secured his belongings to the saddlebags. Satisfied he gave the plain brown head a gentle rub, taking the time to inform the horse in no uncertain terms about the mental state of his master and the likely outcome of the madness ahead.

When he was done, Vinculus rounded on Childermass.

“I have no doubt Brewer is up to whatever this night might send his way. It us you that raises my suspicions. I do not think you could look worse if you were ground under a millstone. If your pride can stand it, at the least you should allow me to bind the wounds. It may be that I’ve had some experience with such things.” He gave a horrid grin while a finger made a slow trace of the scar upon his temple and shaggy bisected eyebrow.

“There is no time,” Childermass made to rise and failed.

Vinculus opened a saddlebag and pulled forth a shirt. “And what purpose will it serve, if by the Raven King’s swollen nuts we reach Starecross and I deliver to the safety of its threshold the drained husk of John Childermass?”

Vinculus began to tear the shirt into strips. “I will start with your leg.”

And so he did, exhibiting much more care and skill than his appearance and callous attitude would suggest. Relieving the garment of a sleeve, he folded it into a pad and set it upon the gash.

“I know what you are John Childermass, and I, perhaps more than most know what you are capable of. Still, your odds are as long and uncertain as this night.”

“I will cheat it of its prize.”

“Oh, and how will you do that?”

Childermass did not answer straightaway, until at last. “The cards have shewn me that events must follow a course…” a sharp pause while Vinculus tightened the cloth about his thigh.

“Yes, and?” Vinculus began to fold the largest remaining scraps of the shirt into a pad before tearing the final sleeve to strips. He was growing impatient at the man’s secrets and reluctance. Growing ever more worried about this notion of riding over hill and field in the dark of night through a storm born of rage, conjured by a creature that had but one goal in mind, the end of John Childermass – and quite likely anyone in his company.

That first glee of seeing Childermass bested was gone. Now, as Vinculus pushed the greatcoat open and unbuttoned the man’s coat, he realized the gravity of what he was caught up in.

“How?…”

“Some fortune was with me this day,” answered Childermass.

“If that is how you wish to name this catastrophe.” Vinculus pressed the pad over the bloodied mess staining Childermass’ vest and began to bind it in place. He wound the strips so tight about Childermass ribs that the man gave a pained hiss with each tug and tie of the cloth.

“And what has happened here?” Vinculus pulled away the slashed and bloodied shirt at Childermass’ chest.

Childermass dismissed him, pushing Vinculus’ hand away. “It is nothing so much, considering how it might have ended. Leave it. Now, we must go!”

Vinculus sat back on his heels, pulled off his tattered hat and scrubbed his sleeve across his brow. Gestured in frustration at the makeshift work. “This will not be enough!”

Childermass was slow getting to his feet. “It will. Starecross is not so very far.”

A great laugh devoid of even the smallest bit of humor burst from Vinculus. He spoke to no one in particular. “And I am thought insane.”

How it was that Childermass made it back into the saddle, Vinculus was not entirely certain, for the man looked like he might waver and topple in even the weakest of summer breezes. It seemed a foolish thing to do anything other than see Brewer to a comfortable stall and the two of them back inside to food, warmth, and care. Vinculus thought he might try to get the man to see reason.

Seeing the set look upon Childermass’ face, Vinculus did not even bother. He did however give voice to his curiosity, one final barb flung to assuage his nerves and give voice to his fear and anger. Words meant to drive deep the futility of this endeavor.

“Did you find them, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell?”

Childermass shifted in the saddle, gathered the reins tighter. A moment’s hesitation before his answer.

“Aye.”

Vinculus eyebrows near grew wings, climbing clear to the rim of his hat. He waited but there was nothing more, until.

“When we reach Starecross Hall you will not mention what I have told you to John Segundus, the cards have told me that in this, he must find his own way. Our survival depends upon it.”

“Your survival you mean,” corrected Vinculus pushing the stable door open, fighting the wind as he did so. Childermass voiced no riposte, allowing the ragged man the last word.

He stared into the storm, felt the wind and rain turn against him. Heard the threats of the fiend echo all around, soft now, distant as it worked against his magic. Only a matter of time before it found a willing path to the mortal lands. Only a matter of time before the full force of its magic was at their heels.

The danger he was bringing to the good people of Starecross was a fist closing about his heart. His selfishness, a weight upon his shoulders so great it might drag him from Brewer’s back and down into the yielding soil to the Otherlands. The wind gentled, the rain softened. Upon the nearby wall briarthorn stirred, wicked points glistened silver in the rain.

Beckoning.

He might offer himself to the thorns, his blood and heart; spare Starecross what was to come. The gash in his forearm ached, sudden and sharp. Vinculus was speaking, but Childermass did not hear.

There was a great clap of thunder high above and the sky told him to run.


End file.
